


It's easy to live when you're in love (and I'm so in love)

by lesbianquill



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, World War II, everyone else makes a cameo but it isn't important, just some vintage gals in love, serena's uniform kink spans universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:35:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianquill/pseuds/lesbianquill
Summary: The Holby Women's Institute is a place for togetherness, purpose, joy— and, when fate allows, for falling in love with visiting army medics. When Serena's party plans go awry, everything turns out better than expected.





	It's easy to live when you're in love (and I'm so in love)

**Author's Note:**

> For my Holby Secret Valentine, gay-and-disorganized! I hope you enjoy this fun romp in a historical setting.
> 
> Happy Valentine's day!! ♥

Being a good leader isn’t just about being an exemplary member of the community. It requires a firm hand, excellent planning, and heaps of dedication. It’s a good thing, then, that Serena has all three.

Her place as president of Holby’s Women’s Institute is something to be proud of— something her mother would have been proud of— a title that is hers, a role that she has worked hard for.

The excited chattering of the girls lets her know that it’s all worth it, that it hasn’t all been put to waste. It’s the liveliest they’ve been in weeks, now, as they set out plates of home baked sweets and hang decorations, as songs are practised and instruments are tuned. Serena can’t help but smile as she watches Jason instruct Morven and Colette on exactly how to hang the bunting. He’s been such a help, in his own special, unique way. She doesn’t know what she’d do without him, or any of them, for that matter.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Chantelle scoff a finger of shortbread, and finds herself chuckling. She doesn’t have the heart to tell her off— after all, they all deserve their bit of fun after so many losses in the past few months. She’s hoping to inject a little bit of joy back into their lives, to give them something to look back on fondly. Keeping busy is the first step. She would be surprised at the strong turnout, but she knows that half of the women were already digging out their best frocks at the mere mention of army boys.  _ Some of them don’t seem to need them, _  Serena muses, turning her attention to where Essie is fawning over Mr Levy at the piano. 

There’s a cry as Morven is almost knocked off of her ladder when Zosia enters, too busy reapplying her lipstick to see where she’s going.

“How’s Oliver?” Serena asks.

She shrugs, answering with little more than a soft sigh. “More of the same, though he’s remembering a bit more now. I know I should be thankful that he’s alive, but...”

“It’s difficult, I know.” Serena gives Zosia her bravest smile and offers her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come on, you can help me with the tea. Lets see if we can’t find some brandy somewhere under the sink, hmm?”

They busy themselves with teapots and china cups, working in comfortable silence until Sian interrupts to let them know their guests have arrived.

“I don’t want to sound ungrateful,” Sian hisses into the kitchen as she pokes her head round the door. “But... I thought you said there’d be men.”

“There will be—”

“You might want to check again,” she beckons, and Serena can only roll her eyes as she follows after her.

Sian’s right. There’s not a man in sight, save for Jason and Mr Levy; just a group of women in uniform currently striding through the door.

Serena sighs, squares her shoulders, and does what she does best: makes the most of what she has. Her mouth spreads into her best forced smile as she crosses the room and extends a hand to the woman nearest to her, a leggy blonde who takes Serena’s hand and gives it a firm shake.

“Major Berenice Wolfe,” the woman introduces. Dark eyes sparkle under a sweep of fringe, eyes that linger for a beat longer than they should on Serena’s own. “Thank you for having us.”

“Not a problem,” Serena replies, although something tells her she’s not going to live this one down with the other women for a while. “Serena Campbell— welcome to the Holby Women’s Institute, ladies.”

The rest of the introductions go quite smoothly, all things considered, and there seems to be some sort of relief among the women that they don’t have anyone to perform for. No fluttering eyelashes and dismissing wandering hands, no charade of sweetness and purity. They can all simply be themselves, get to know each other, delight in the joy of a moment of peace in a world at war.

Bernie becomes practically glued to her side, somehow, and Serena finds herself not protesting in the slightest. She introduces her to the girls and lets herself be introduced in turn, even manages to snag a dance with Captain Dawson whilst Bernie gets ushered towards the tea and cake by Jason. He seems far too keen on learning the ins and outs of war medicine. Part of her wants to intervene, wants to prevent him from his blunt prying, but she’s quickly swept away as Alex swings her around the dancefloor. She decides to offer Bernie her next dance as means of a safe escape; doesn’t even recognise how enticing a thought it is until she bounds over and sticks a hand out towards her.

“Care for a dance, Major?”

Bernie looks startled, almost, and yet she takes Serena’s offered hand with little hesitation, lets herself be pulled onto the makeshift dancefloor as some of the younger girls dance along beside them. It should be lighthearted, fun, completely unserious. Then Bernie pulls her in, slips an arm around her waist as the other grips firmly onto her hand. They sway in time to the music, but Serena can’t even hear it— can only hear the pounding in her ears as she watches Bernie’s lips curl up into a sly grin. Her heart hammers away in her chest.

This is _not_ how she imagined this would go.

This close, Serena can make out the details of Bernie’s face: the shallow wrinkles that frame her glittering eyes, the elegance of her nose, the dusting of freckles on her cheeks. There’s years of history etched into her face, a lifetime of storytelling. Serena wants to know it all; wants to know how she got that scar on her neck that peeks out from under her collar; wants to know what those eyes have seen, who that mouth has kissed. Wants to kiss that mouth, she realises, after a song and a half of staring at her lips.

She was so used to chastising the younger girls for pursuing visiting soldiers. How many times has she warned Elinor about prettyboy yanks with charming smiles and roaming hands? How often has she consoled women that have been abandoned by fleeting romances? Half her time is spent repeating the same thing over and over: _don’t let yourself fall for a soldier._

As she looks up from those soft pink lips, wets her own, and finally meet Bernie’s gaze, Serena knows just one thing: she’s going to break her own rule. With Bernie Wolfe, of all people.

All that twirling isn’t the only thing making her lightheaded. It’s Bernie, fingers warm as they splay over of the curve of her hip, as she holds her hand tight. It’s her scent, carrot cake and cigarettes, sweetened by soap and a hint of perfume. It’s how she talks low into Serena’s ear and sends that husky voice of hers reverberating through Serena’s chest where it’s pressed tight to her own.

“You’re quite the dancer, Mrs Campbell,” she says.

“I could say the same for you, Major,” Serena quips back, “Do you often sweep unsuspecting women off their feet?”

“Only the pretty ones.”

The surety in her voice— stone sober yet somehow still light and teasing— sets a fresh wave of panic surging through her, and for a moment Serena worries that the generous slice of Morven’s sponge cake she’d helped herself to earlier might made a reappearance down the front of Bernie’s uniform. She wasn’t ready for the possibility that Bernie could be flirting with her, that she could feel this too, whatever this was. Suddenly everything is too much, and by the end of the next song she’s garbling an excuse to get away, parting ways so suddenly it leaves Bernie gawping in the middle of the dancefloor.

In the safety of the kitchen, Serena takes a moment to rub her temple in a vain attempt to calm her nerves.

“Pull it together, Campbell,” she tells herself as she turns on the tap, lets the sink fill and starts scrubbing used teacups to busy her fidgeting hands.

“Serena?”

The sudden voice from behind startles her so much the teacup almost slips from her fingers. She fumbles clumsily until Bernie crosses the room, easing the china from her shaking hands and placing it gently back onto the countertop.

“I wondered where you got to,” she says gently, her smile irritatingly disarming.

Serena can’t tell her the truth. Eloquence is usually her forte, but now she can’t even begin to find the words to tell her that she’s terrified, that she’s never felt like this before, never yearned to be held by a woman so badly.

“I- I didn’t want to run out of cups,” she finally stammers, a lame excuse that Bernie answers with the raise of her eyebrows.

“Not running away from me, then.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She turns back to the sink, busies herself with washing so she doesn’t have to look at her so closely.

“They’re all having a lovely time out there,” Bernie says, “this’ll keep them happy for weeks.”

“Do you think so?” There’s a pause before Serena huffs half a nervous laugh. “Here I was, worried I was going to make a terrible mess of it all.”

“Serena...”

When Bernie places a hand on her arm, moves in closer, Serena stops still. She turns to find Bernie looking at her— _really_ looking, past the facade of her presidential duty, her role as a mother, her forced smiles and false pretenses. Finds that she can’t stop looking back, letting her eyes slowly track between Bernie’s burning gaze and her lips, slightly parted and waiting.

Waiting for what, she doesn’t know. That is, until Bernie kisses her, right there, in the middle of the kitchen.

Her lips are softer than she thought they would be. She’s used to abrasive, stubble laced kisses; hungry, aggressive kisses; nothing like this. Bernie is firm yet gentle, soft yet sure. A hand rises, tentative, to brush her neck, stroking her hair ever so slightly. It doesn’t nearly last long enough. Bernie pulls away, eyes wide, seemingly as startled with herself as Serena is.

There’s a pause where Serena doesn’t quite know what to do. Part of her questions if this is all a dream, a joke, a mistake. Whatever it is, she knows that she doesn’t want it to end.

She knows what she _does_ want, too.

She wants to kiss Bernie, so she does. Crashes lips against lips, hot and wet and desperate; grabs roughly at the coarse sleeves of her uniform jacket. Letting her go now and allowing the consequences to bubble to the surface is all too much to think about; so she doesn’t, just kisses and kisses until she runs out of air.

They part slowly, hardly daring to pull away more than a few inches, as if it means they’ll be lost forever. Serena thinks she might just be lost, now: lost to Bernie Wolfe and her glittering eyes and her rich, curling smile. Lost to her breathy chuckle and her barking laugh. Lost to her lithe body, her soft lips, her strong hands.

“Will you write to me when I go?” Bernie asks tentatively, “It’ll only be a few months. You can tell me what I’m missing.”

“I don’t think petty village gossip and Jason’s morbid curiosity with field medicine will be much to get excited about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” She smiles, and Serena’s heart skips a beat as Bernie lifts a hand to stroke her cheek. “I quite like thinking I’ll have something— someone— to come home for.”

Serena nods in reply before pressing one last kiss to her lips. It doesn’t feel sad, laced with the knowledge that Bernie might not come back at all, doesn’t feel like mindless hope.

It feels like a promise.


End file.
